Page 1 of The Living and the Dead

I

In Halland, the Paths

Lead Anywhere

1

She believed in the truth, possibly the truth at any price.

It was this belief that guided her toward a career in law enforcement, and that, in turn, had brought her to Skavböke. This seemed like the best way to look at it. Some things in life are just that simple.

Others can be considerably more complex.

Perhaps it’s telling: on that cold morning in December 1999, when it all began, she was almost lost. Although she had caught a glimpse of the house through the trees just a little while before, it was hard to find her way to it. Skavböke was intricate, its paths far too thorny, its woods too deep. No vast open fields to navigate by, just myriad small farms and terrain, damp forest and dim clearings.

But then it appeared before her, the Eriksson family home: two stories built on a small open patch surrounded by thick old oaks and birches.

The son of the house opened the door, his hair damp, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Eighteen years old and thin, almost sinewy, he stood with one hand on the doorframe and an intelligent gleam in his alert eyes.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Siri Bengtsson. I’m with the police. May I come in?”

“My parents aren’t home.”

“You’re actually the one I want to talk to. Sander, right?”

“What is this all about?”

If he knew, he hid it well.

“I’d like to sit down and talk about it.”

As he showed her into the kitchen, she saw scratches on his forearms.

The house felt smaller than it was. The ceiling was low, and heavy furniture lined the walls. Advent candelabras shone in the windows, and shiny red Christmas ornaments hung gleaming in front of the curtains. When Siri sat down on the creaky kitchen bench, she felt a cold draft from the window.

Across the table from her, Sander kept his hands in his lap as though he’d been sent to the principal’s office for a talking-to. His gaze was open and full of genuine curiosity. But the rest of his face suggested hesitation, and she knew the type: over the years, Sander Eriksson’s face would become harder before softening again.

She took a notepad from her pocket and clicked a pen. “To start, may I have your name and personal identity number?”

He told her, and waited as she jotted it down.

“And who lives here, besides you?”

“My parents.”

“No siblings?”

He shook his head tentatively.

“We’re investigating an incident that occurred near here last night. Perhaps you’ve already heard about it?”

“No, what happened?”

“A young person has been found dead. And so I need to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts yesterday.”

Sander’s eyes grew large.

“Dead? Here? Who is it?”